


The Lie That Is My Life

by ItalianPotatoMoustache



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Inner Dialogue, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItalianPotatoMoustache/pseuds/ItalianPotatoMoustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My soul was like a piece of coal, black and cold until lit with determination. The fire that results is what powers my soul, until it all got snuffed out, and now all that;s left is the black soot that stains the white of the fabric of my life. My life is tainted, impure, and there's no way to clean it. That is why I sit here, with no regrets. I know what I've done, and I'm tired of trying to clean the stains, everyone knows they're there.<br/>So, what's the use?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lie That Is My Life

Do you ever just feel like the world is always watching you? Always judging you as you walk by, glares and disgusted looks upon their faces as they look at you as if you were just another piece of trash that missed the bin? Unpopular, unlucky, undesirable, intolerable, unloved and just plain out unwanted. That’s my life every second, minute, hour, day and year. It’s never changed, not even once. But you know what? I just don’t care anymore. You get used to the feeling after a while, you learn to glare back and show the world every little bit of hatred it shows you. You learn how to hold your head up high and spit in the face of those that you know are stronger than you. You just learn to simply lie. Lie to the people who know you, to your family, to the world, _to yourself._

Even after you learn to pretend to be strong, held together by the cracks with something as weak as sewing strings. Even after you learn to lie to yourself, to plaster that smirk to your face and to just not give a damn anymore, after all of that the despair still finds a way to slowly seep into the cracks. It seeps into your very being, into mind, and into your soul. You’re never safe as long as you’re broken. What’s broken stays broken, no matter how many times you get mended and stuck back together. The strings snap, the glue crumbles, the smiles falter, the lies just stop working.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, people notice as despair eats at your mind. They notice your stagger as you walk, the dulling of your eyes, sometimes they even listen close enough to hear the tremble of your voice. I wish I was that lucky. I’m left to pull myself up everyday. How do they expect me to find the strength to pull myself out of this depression when I don’t even have the strength to pull myself out of bed anymore?

This must be how dolls feel. Maybe it’s also why they always have pouts permanently painted upon their cherub faces. I understand how they feel, unwanted and just left to rot once they’re done being played with. But dolls get another chance when a new child comes along, wishing to brush their hair and dress them up. I wish I was a doll, I wouldn’t have to feel this ache that tortures my heart everyday knowing that I’ll never be picked up again, never begged for by someone wishing to hold me. I’m no longer of any use. No one wants to revive what I was, they won’t bother. I’m just a shell of what I used to be, and who wants to deal with that? I’ve been left here upon these cold sheet with dried tear stains on my cheeks that no one would dare to clean. They’re just waiting for me to die, to leave this world to the very hell that awaits my tortured soul, so that they can finally be done with me.

When I do leave this world, there will be no memorial. There will be no tears, no “He was just misunderstood.” or “He’ll be missed.”, only mumbles of “Finally” and “Good riddance.” That’s only if anyone notices. There will only be a letter that’ll be discarded into the fireplace as they carry on their daily routine. If anyone ever cared to read the letter their thoughts wouldn’t be sorrowful, they’d be “Finally that Trancy pest is done with.” 

I’m not bothered by this fact, oh no quite the contrary really. My life was simply a soot stain on the white linen sheets of nobles. I was the tainted rat that scurried around the feet of the blue blooded earls, those same earls with so much pride that wouldn’t even bother _spitting_ in my direction. This was my life, a scrawny child worth not even the dirt off the bottom of your boots who managed to climb the ranks with a burning determination, only for the flame to be snuffed out the minute it had been lit. 

I had been victorious! I came out from the dirt I had been raised in, I beat all the odds. I had expected to be praised, to hear the cheers and watch as heaven's rays shined down and for once in my _god damn_ life be told I mattered. How stupid I had been. No, I did not shine in the limelight, nor any light at all. I thought I had crawled my way out of the depths of the darkness, and as soon as I felt the warmth of the light my demons grabbed at my ankles and tugged me down again. I was trapped.

I guess in the end, I was the only one responsible for my demise. I was too naive, fell for every trick played against me in the petty belief that it would draw the curtains and show me that it was all a lie, that I was actually the star and everyone would adore me. I held onto that dream for so long, and I willed myself to hope for it so hard that it _hurt_. It hurt to dream, to have any thread of hope. But it hurt so much less than the thought that no one cared if I was in pain. But I ignored it all and kept hurting myself everyday with the longing of being loved. Because maybe, maybe, if I believed hard enough it would come true. 

Isn’t that what fairies are supposed to do? If you believed in them they would grant your greatest desires? I guess I got a dud, for my fairy doesn’t do anything I ask of it. He just stands around glaring through his piss yellow eyes. I hated those eyes. I used to hate that saying, but now I understand. Whenever I look into those eyes, all I feel is dread and fear. Dread and fear from the eyes of the being I ordered to protect me. How does Ciel put all his faith in Sebastian? Does he never feel panic when looking at Sebastian? No matter how much I act, I wouldn’t trust Claude with my life, but for some reason I grew so attached. It was the false sense of security that drew me in, the honey coated lies sticking to my heart, the true wrath behind those words warming it up and I had interpreted that as love. I was foolish.

In the end, my stage was in flames, the actors long gone as I finally stood in my spotlight. The flames burn as they licked at my soul. I had finally seen the truth, my life as an earl crashed and was reduced to ashes as I once again lay in the filth of the dirt, begging my way to redemption. I knew what was coming, and that was why I did not care if anyone remembered me or not. I was the lie that every mother tells their child to never fall for. I was the sad morsel who thought that the world was fair and that if I worked hard enough, I would get what I wanted in the end. I was wrong.

The world is not fair, for once soot stains the white fabric of life, no matter how much you scrub at it, you cannot take the black tarnish back. It’s there, forever, and there’s simply nothing you can do but sit back and suffer. That is the hell that was my life, and I was okay with that.


End file.
